short short story

Mis[chief]

He’d always wanted to be a boss of something – just never quite got the hang of rubbing people up the right way.

Maybe now he had a better chance, now he’d remembered the whys and wherefores of all the painful mental sores which had eaten away little by little at the heart and soul he’d gone and rolled up in his fairly ill-fated life to that date, as if tied up with string and brown paper of rigour; no alacrity for him; no creativity to recover.

Yet now he was looking elsewhere really quite strange.  And although imaginings still made him think weirdly on occasions, he was finding himself far more grounded in reality: and the difference was simply the reality he was becoming grounded in was pleasurable and loving in its own very self.

This, for him, was oh so very strange.  And he remained a little cautious, and he remained a little wary, and he felt a little like an animal who was out of hibernating burrow – and still a little scared of what might be over the brow of the hill; what might be waiting still to be discovered.

But the fear, at least for now, had a very different flavour.

It tasted of life, not survival.

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